Drive-Away Dolls: Sapphic Jam

Margaret Qualley and Geraldine Viswanathan in Drive-Away Dolls

One of the most deliciously perverse surprises of the Coen Brothers’ Burn After Reading occurs more than an hour into the movie, when the ominous device George Clooney has spent so much time tinkering with is revealed to be an elaborate sex toy. Drive-Away Dolls, Ethan Coen’s first venture (ignoring his little-seen documentary on Jerry Lee Lewis) without his sibling Joel, exhibits rather less patience in bombarding viewers with adult paraphernalia; within its first 15 minutes, contraband is inserted into various orifices, while a divorcing couple fights over ownership of a rubber phallus that protrudes invitingly from their living room wall. Sure, this movie may have half the number of usual Coens, but it has way more dildos.

This isn’t to suggest that Drive-Away Dolls is immature or unsophisticated. Setting aside that sex jokes can be very funny when delivered well, Coen’s solo debut is deceptively ambitious, cramming plenty of plot, action, and ideas into its fleet 84 minutes. Yet it lacks the elegant deftness of that Burn After Reading scene, which embodied the brothers’ nimble fusion of polished technique and puerile humor. Read More

Ranking Every Movie of 2023 (sort of)

Thomas McKenzie in Eileen; Rosamund Pike in Saltburn; Keira Knightley in Boston Strangler; Aubrey Plaza in Operation Fortune: Ruse de Guerre; Sofia Boutella in Rebel Moon

You know how this works. Having recently published our list of the best movies of the year, it’s time to rank the rest. And by “rank” I mean clump them into semi-arbitrary tiers. But don’t worry, even though they aren’t individually ranked, nothing’s to prevent you from kvetching that the comedy I slotted into Tier 3 actually belongs in Tier 5, and that the thriller I placed in the “Underrated” tier is Overrated, Actually. That kind of griping is exactly why we have the internet.

Per usual, in addition to identifying each movie’s director, I have also appended the specific service it’s currently streaming on (if any). Note that, given the vagaries of streaming and the gluttony of assholes like David Zaslav, this information is necessarily impermanent. In other words, stream ’em while you got ’em. (Remember, I have stopped including Rotten Tomatoes data because Rotten Tomatoes is trash.)

Here’s the full list of all 134 new releases I watched in 2023, split into tiers that are cogent and precise and totally rigid (where applicable, the hyperlink leads to my review of that particular movie): Read More

The Best Movies of 2023

Julia Garner in The Royal Hotel; Greta Lee in Past Lives; Margot Robbie in Barbie; Park Ji-min in Return to Seoul; Emma Mackey in Emily

Was 2023 the year that saved the movies? It’s a question that stems from a false premise; any prior suggestion that cinema was imperiled—that the multiplex is homogenized, that streamers are destroying theaters, that studios don’t make films for grownups anymore—ignores the immutable fact (or at least this critic’s fierce opinion) that artists have spent the past decade stubbornly churning out high-quality motion pictures. Still, it’s difficult to deny that something happened on July 21, 2023—a moment that, depending on your perspective, either signaled a seismic shift in audience behavior or vindicated your long-held insistence that movies remain alive and well.

I am speaking, of course, of #Barbenheimer, that ungainly portmanteau of two of the year’s most critically and commercially successful pictures, which arrived in theaters on the same day. Rather than cannibalizing each other, they complemented one another, sparking a craze of double features and breathing fresh life into the industry. Here were two movies that, in empirical terms, had nothing in common; one was a brightly colored fantasy inspired by a doll, the other a sober and intense three-hour epic about the birth (and aftermath) of the atomic bomb. Yet people flocked to Barbie and Oppenheimer alike, and in the process they reminded everyone that the simple act of going to the movies remains a cherished pastime—a sacred ritual in which art and commerce need not be mutually exclusive. Read More

Lisa Frankenstein: Wit’s Alive!

Kathryn Newton in Lisa Frankenstein

Diablo Cody and the ’80s: match made in cinematic heaven, or ungainly fit? Despite a varied and underrated screenwriting career (Tully, Ricki and the Flash), Cody remains best known for her opening one-two punch of Juno and Jennifer’s Body, which instantly established her polarizing style: pithy wordplay, obvious themes, and referential characters who seem to know they’re living in a movie. The heightened quality of her writing would appear to make her a natural match for the era that brought us John Hughes and synth pop. What’s strange about Lisa Frankenstein is that it neither sends up classic ’80s teen flicks nor pays loving tribute to them. It seems to be set in 1989 for no other reason than to justify its kickass soundtrack.

Which is fine, as far as it goes. I’m skeptical that Lisa Frankenstein will earn the same cult following that Jennifer’s Body did—certainly it won’t send adolescent boys scurrying to the internet in search of “megan fox amanda seyfried kiss scene”—but it is at least a vibrant and playful production. The feature directorial debut of Zelda Williams (working from a script by Cody), it sports bright colors, cool music, and an array of outfits so dazzling, they’d make Cher from Clueless jealous. The movie is not without significant flaws—uneven dialogue, awkward staging, a general aimlessness—yet it offers the robust built-in defense of, “Sure, but did you see her hair?” Read More

The Zone of Interest: Heart of Gas

Sandra Hüller in The Zone of Interest

The music speaks the truth. Strip away The Zone of Interest’s first few minutes—a grim overture in which Mica Levi’s doomy, dissonant score aches and seethes against a black screen—and you might suspect that you’ve stumbled into a gentle movie of bucolic bliss. The first image we see is that of a happy-looking family lounging lazily in a meadow. As a stream gurgles nearby, the children traipse along a dirt path, the sun glinting down on their golden hair. Their parents seem entirely relaxed, suggesting a life of comfort and security. Perhaps they’re on vacation, or maybe just enjoying a weekend picnic. Even after they return to their home, a cozy cottage with a carefully tended garden and a small in-ground pool, it takes some time before you pick up on the curious nature of their surroundings: the razor wire atop the large wall in the background, the smoke billowing from distant chimneys, the muffled echoes of gunfire and screams.

Adapted by Jonathan Glazer from a novel by Martin Amis, The Zone of Interest is decidedly a movie about the Holocaust. But it is also not a Holocaust picture—at least, not in the way the subgenre has traditionally been understood. There are no ghastly scenes of extermination, no heroic feats of endurance and survival, no condemnatory speeches, no comeuppance or catharsis. There is simply the pervasive aroma of death, and the people willfully oblivious to its stench. Read More